Red Sunday

The preacher died on the pulpit
With his hand on the Bible
His hand in your pockets
A bullet lodged in his eye
Crimson splatter
Forward thrust
Forward drop
Blood funnel on the Bible
Soaking through the pages
Red droplets on the cross
A drizzle on the congregation
But the pews remain clean
And occupied
No panic
No tears
Wide-eyed children
The preacher died on the pulpit
No more sermons of the faux